


N0DRV3R

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Interspecies Relationship(s), Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam would like to make it clear exactly who the awesome Camaro belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	N0DRV3R

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to blackheisei for the proofread! All remaining mistakes are totally my own.

The funny thing about saving the world was that it only got you so far. And yeah, okay, most of the world didn't even know it'd been saved, much less that one Samuel James Witwicky had had anything to do with it. But even with the people who _did_ know he'd helped take down Megatron, it wasn't exactly _leverage._

When he was told: "Come help with the shopping," he still had to say: "Yes, Mom," and like it.

The thing about shopping with his mother was...well, actually, it wasn't 'thing,' it was _'things,'_ the first of which being that he had to ignore the hopeful revs of Bee's engine and climb into his mother's station wagon instead. 'It's not my fault!' he mouthed in Bee's direction as he pulled open the passenger-side door of his mom's car, his stomach clenching with a weird sort of guilt over the way Bee practically sagged on his wheels. He knew Bee took the guardian thing seriously, but a trip to the megamart wasn't exactly a life-threatening occurrence.

 _Pride_ -threatening, maybe.

The megamart was another reason why he tried to make himself scarce whenever his mother started getting that hunter-gatherer look. No one from school liked to be seen there, and it was important not to make eye-contact. 'Oh, his family shops at the megamart' was like having people say, 'Oh, she buys her clothes at Wal-Mart.' Sam honestly didn't know what the problem was. He would have shopped at Wal-Mart and been grateful; they had less _stuff_ there.

"Oh, _here_ we go, Sam," his mother was saying delightedly as he tried to sink his head into his own chest cavity, his shoulders somewhere up around his ears. Sadly, hanging out with Autobots didn't make him one himself, even if it would have been really, really handy to have picked up a trick or two. Of course, if his mother found out he could transform, she'd probably make him turn into a second cart. She was just that kind of shopper.

Some people's parents were compulsive coupon-clippers. Some were bargain hounds, antiquers, plundering yard-sale Huns. Sam's mother just liked to shop. Period. Full-stop. Gadgets were her kryptonite, as one look inside their kitchen would attest; all she needed to make her day complete was a sticker that said "new!" or a redesign of an ancient box. _Bran flakes_ could get a remodel, and into the cart it'd go. And if there was anything more horrifying than his mother turned loose in a two-story, fifty-thousand square-foot building with his dad's debit card, it had to be--

"The automotive section!"

Sam flinched, dropping his attempts to transform and flying into action. "Uh, no--Mom--bad idea, okay, you know how he is about that car, and if we come home with the wrong kind of oil--"

"Your father can get his own oil," his mom scoffed, looking at him like _he_ was the crazy one. When all he did was stare at her, she heaved a patient little sigh and said, "Well, come on, then. Don't you want anything for your new car?"

That was...that was wrong on so many levels, he didn't even know where to begin. Except maybe at the beginning.

"Uh...Mom. You know Bumblebee's not a--"

"Well, that doesn't mean he doesn't _need things._ I mean, honestly. If I chucked you onto some alien planet--"

"Uh... _Mom."_

"--don't you think you'd at least want a toothbrush? Although I don't suppose he _can_ brush his teeth, can he?" she mused, marching into the aisles and leaving him to drag the shopping cart in her wake.

"Uh...no. Not without--" _Teeth,_ he'd been about to say, but--

"Right, not without looking _very_ suspicious. You do realize you're going to have to take care of him, don't you?"

"Uh...?"

"If you're going to be driving him, you're at _least_ going to wash him," she insisted, turning back with a look in her eyes that meant her mind was made up, and no amount of arguing, wheedling or outright begging could change it. Not that he actually intended to argue; it was just...if Bee _had_ been a screaming yellow concept Camaro, Sam would have washed him every day. _Twice._ Only Bee wasn't anything of the sort, not really, and God, it was going to be embarrassing even to ask, and--

And his mom had just handed him a bright green container of Turtle Wax. _Turtle Wax._

"Mom," he said flatly, "I can't use this." And now she was giving him the same look she'd given him when he was six and refused to let his baby cousin share his crayons. "I mean--Dad uses Pinnacle," he explained in a rush, and yeah, okay, it was a bit more expensive--make that a _lot_ more expensive, but-- _Turtle Wax?_ On a car that looked like _that?_

He half expected her to turn this into a teachable moment, point out that if he wanted to drop fifty bucks on a fancy buff job, then maybe a summer job was in his future. Instead her smile was proud as she removed the offense from his sight and replaced it with the appropriate offering, and though she didn't say it, he could practically hear what she was thinking.

_You have learned well, Grasshopper._

Oh, God. He'd started shopping like his mom.

"So what else do you need? Sponges? Wiper fluid? Does he use wiper fluid? I'm not going to let you drive in the rain if he--"

"Uh, yeah, I think he's got that covered," Sam interrupted, though he didn't actually know for certain. Another thing he'd have to ask about, and while that was embarrassing too, it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as: 'So...can I hose you down, soap you up, and rub you all over? Mr. Giant...Alien...Robot.' Yeah, that was going to go over well.

And then he heard the words of far too many of his nightmares.

"Oh, this would be cute. Don't you think?"

It wasn't a bobble head or a plastic Madonna, but that was where small mercies ended. It was clearly meant to hang from the rearview mirror, and okay, it _was_ in the shape of a bumblebee.

A bumblebee made _completely_ out of rhinestones.

"Augh," he managed as she shook it enticingly at him, and just...no. Absolutely not. "Mom, c'mon. You can't put girl ornaments on a boy...um. Anyway, I don't think he'd like it."

"Oh, please. I saw him when you first brought him home, remember?" And oh God, if any of his classmates were listening-- "He had a _disco ball,"_ she pointed out, shaking the rhinestone atrocity at him again. "And anyway, it's not like he can introduce himself."

"Uh...what?"

"Well, how else are people going to know his name?"

***

It was difficult to compute the source of the acute relief Bumblebee felt when Sam returned from his excursion with his mother. There'd been no danger; the Decepticons had been quiet since their defeat at Mission City, and that had given Bee more than enough time to insinuate his own code into what passed for the local security networks. At the first sign of trouble, he could have been moving to intercept, but the afternoon had been relatively peaceful, even by human standards.

Which didn't quite explain why Sam looked so nervous now.

"So, uh...Bumblebee," Sam began, shifting on his feet as he met Bee's optics in the dubious cover of the garage. "Have you got a minute?"

Habit made him reach for the airwaves, pulling _"Baby, we can talk all night"_ out of the ether when a simple 'yes' would suffice. It made Sam snort with amusement, however, and watching some of the tension drain from the young human's frame made Bumblebee's processors hum with satisfaction. In the weeks he'd known Sam, he'd grown to like what he saw, and he'd liked very much how quickly Sam had lost his fear of them. Not that Sam seemed afraid now, precisely, only...uncomfortable.

"Yeah. So, look. I know you guys are really big on the blending in thing, but if you're going to live with a human, that kind of goes for me, too. And I know you said you're still cool with pretending to be a car," Sam added with a half-shrug, the muscles in his shoulders going stiff again, "but if I bring you home looking like you did right off the lot, my mom's going to kill me. And the whole world's going to know _one_ of us is an alien," he finished in a mutter, shoving both hands in his pockets, "because no one just leaves a car like that sitting around dirty."

He had to parse what he knew of human interaction against his own hardwired expectations before he understood the issue at hand, and once he did, he wasn't sure whether to be amused or--in some fashion he couldn't quite explain--proud.

 _"Now it's all in your hands,"_ he hazarded via YouTube, sharpening his optics as Sam nodded emphatically.

"Yeah, uh...that. 'Cause, I mean, you're _not_ a car, so if that's going to be weird--me, uh...you know--we could run through a car wash or something. Although someone's probably gonna call the ASPCA on me if I try that, and by 'A' I mean 'automobiles,' but--"

 _"Lay them on me baby,"_ Bumblebee offered, a deep hum spiking warmly through him at Sam's earnest embarrassment, because it wasn't human nature to consider the feelings of machines; only those of other _people. "As much as you like."_

He'd been on Earth long enough to know that the human epidermis did change colors, but he'd never seen it happen so quickly before outside of animated features. When Sam... _blushed_ was the word flagged by his processors, though it seemed too tame a description...he did so from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt, but when Bee cocked his head curiously, Sam huffed an uncertain breath that turned into a laugh, shaking his head.

"Context, right," Sam muttered. It wasn't completely clear whether he was speaking to Bee or to himself.

"It wouldn't be...unwelcome," Bumblebee explained in his own voice. "Communal maintenance is standard procedure for operatives in the field." He didn't bother to mention that he'd been stationed without a partner for so long that even having Ratchet reattach his legs had very nearly been a pleasure. It'd been far too long since he'd had anyone to help him with even routine maintenance, and as flexible as he was by nature, there were simply some places no one could reach by themselves.

Besides, it was...lonely, having no one to scrub his back plates or badger him into a systems check, no one to care what he looked like or if he was running properly or recharging like he should. No one to worry, and no one to impress.

"Oh." Sam's blush was already fading, and he looked more intrigued than alarmed. "So you're saying a wash and wax would be...."

_"I get by with a little help from my friends...."_

Sam laughed, relaxing all at once, and though something made him duck his head and rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, his smile appeared sincere. "Right. Got it. So I guess you, me and the garden hose have a date. Tomorrow?"

He let the dramatic music swell, bracing himself to pump a young human voice almost as grating as Starscream's through his speakers, only to have Sam throw up both hands, sputtering, "Oh, God, no! Anything but show tunes!" Sam was still grinning, though, even as he lunged for the door, saying, "Okay, I'm outta here before you break my brain. So, uh...."

Sam had pushed open one of the garage's wooden doors, just widely enough for him to slip through while minimizing the chances of Bumblebee being seen from outside, when he hesitated, looking back uncertainly. "I like the new model," he said with a self-conscious shrug. "Uh, it looks good on you. But if you wanted to make any changes, I'd be cool with that too. I mean, it's your...well...you know. So if you were missing the disco ball or anything...."

"It came with the model," Bee replied as gravely as he could manage, a sputter of static trying to break free as he realized what Sam was trying to say.

"So, uh...no dashboard lion, then?"

"It came with the model." And that was one accessory he'd been hoping Sam would forget.

From the quirk of his mouth, Sam seemed to have picked up on that, and his tone was suspiciously solicitous when he asked, "Are you sure you don't miss it? Because we could find you another...."

_"I'm looking through you...where did you go...?"_

Sam laughed again, shaking his head. "Ignoring me, huh? All right, big guy; you win. You are officially a lion-free zone. Which, by the way, _awesome,_ because I've heard of Jesus riding shotgun, but Aslan?"

He had to search and cross-reference that odd remark: _Aslan, from the Turkish word for 'lion,' central character in a popular children's series; riding shotgun: in the front passenger seat; var. Jesus: in the belief that a benign, mystical force will both observe and intervene [subvariant: possible reference (ironic?) to dashboard ornaments in the shape of religious figures, often with photoluminescent properties]._ He wondered if Sam would be interested to know that the Aslan he referred to had been specifically modeled to have Christ-like qualities and killed the search string before he ended up with half of Wikipedia stuck in his database like fossil fuel residue.

"Anyway, that was so not you," Sam said with a grin; Bee was relieved to hear it.

Still.

"Well," he said, unaccountably shy. "I do miss the bee."

He could only wonder why that made Sam look so thoughtful; when he asked, Sam gave him another shrug and said, "Let me get back to you on that."

***

Getting the vanity plates turned out to be easier than he'd thought. Part of the deal with letting Bumblebee stay with him was making everything as legit as possible, and that meant filing an actual registration with the DMV, right down to hanging a trip permit in the back window until the new plates came. He figured Bee would just copy them once they arrived; what mattered was actually having them, all legal and above-board, not what they were made out of.

It took one phone call to cancel the first set of plates he'd applied for and another to check for availability before he had another set cut to replace them. It meant he'd actually have to go in and pick them up in person, but that was fine. Easier than trying to explain to Bee why he needed to go to the DMV again so soon, or worse, trying to explain to his parents why he needed to borrow one of their cars for an hour. His dad just wouldn't get it, and his mom...yeah, that wouldn't be embarrassing at all.

A few weeks and several nightmares later--mostly of walking outside to find his mom had taken matters into her own hands and craft-glued enough rhinestones to spell out 'Bumblebee' all over Bee's rear bumper--the notice he'd been waiting for finally arrived.

"Hey! Think we can make the DMV by five?" Sam called as he leaned out the kitchen door, waving the letter he'd found tacked to the fridge at the car parked in the driveway.

The click of Bee's door locks popping up had him grinning as he let the screen door bang shut behind him, jumping _over_ the grass and onto the path under his dad's watchful eye. "Be back by eleven!" his dad yelled after him, and Sam waved absently as he piled into the front seat, reaching for the keys without thinking. He always caught himself just after the engine turned over, somehow never just before, but it wasn't as weird as it should have been. If Bee wasn't already running by the time Sam got inside, then that meant Sam was driving. It was what they _did._

"We're picking up the license plates?" Bee asked as they pulled onto the road, his voice emerging from the speakers in surround-sound.

"Yup. Got the letter today."

"I thought they were mailing them to you."

"Yeah, well, slight change of plans. Uh, it's a government thing. You know. Inefficiency is our motto."

Although Bee usually seemed to have a built-in lie detector, either he didn't notice this time or he chose not to call Sam on it. And yeah, it was kind of a dumb thing to be keeping secret, but hey, who didn't like surprises? The fact that he was going out of his way to surprise his...his _not-car_ with anti-bling, that was the bit he had trouble with when he thought about it too hard. So he just didn't think about it.

He was pretty sure Bumblebee suspected a Decepticon plot in the delay with his plates; there was no other explanation for how short the line was at the DMV, or the way the folks behind the counter seemed to be hustling to keep up with their computers instead of the other way around. The lady who helped him kept making eye contact, like she wanted to praise the gods of technology but was afraid to jinx something amazing, or else like she was desperately hoping he spoke eyefuck and would call 9-1-1 once he was out of earshot.

When he thanked her for the package she slid across the counter to him, she gave him a distracted little smile, a bemused half-wave, and poked surreptitiously at her monitor like she expected it to start talking. Figuring what she didn't know wouldn't keep her up at night, Sam kept his grin to himself and made tracks for the door.

There were too many people in the parking lot for Bee to swing open a door as Sam drew close, but the radio came up before the engine finished turning over, the music a cover for Bee's voice. "Are those the plates?"

"Yeah, finally," Sam said, dropping a heavy, oversized envelope into the passenger seat and ignoring Bee's curious hum. "Show you later," he added, grinning despite his resolve to play it cool. "Want to go for a drive?"

He got an engine rev and the radio careening over to the opening bars of "Born to Be Wild" for that, was still laughing even as Bee merged them into traffic with the precision of a stunt driver and the speed of a crazy alien robot who had a police scanner whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Though Sam kept both hands on the wheel, he left the actual driving to Bee, not minding in the slightest that he was just along for the ride; his pulse still hammered in his throat, his face eaten up by a huge grin as he watched Bee slip in and out of busy lanes, so smoothly no one even noticed he'd been just millimeters from their bumpers until he was already gone.

It was dumb. It was Pavlovian. And he _knew_ it was dumb and Pavlovian even as he saw the interstate exit sign looming up ahead, heard the ticking of Bee's turn signal go on, which meant an embarrassing flutter of pure glee was about to start up in the pit of his stomach in three...two... _one._ Leaning back into the seat, he felt the rumble all through him as Bee's engine changed pitch, picking up speed as they flew through the curve of the onramp, breaking seventy before they even hit the straightaway.

"I love my car," Sam breathed--joking, honest; Bee was much, much more than a car--and Bee purred all around him, reaching for more speed as Sam gripped the wheel in a shared moment of exhilaration.

They left the worst of the traffic behind along with the city, long stretches of highway opening up as the bunched knots of their fellow drivers began to break up, stringing out across the road. Weaving in and out of the gaps like a dancer, Bee shivered now and then like he was reining himself in by pure force of will, only the need to blend in keeping him from going faster, cutting his maneuvers closer. Briefly Sam wondered if ground-bound models ever wished for wings, for the convenience of all that open air to really let loose in, only...that was apples and oranges, wasn't it? The sky didn't have hairpin turns, a traveling obstacle course of erratic and easily-panicked drivers, potholes or detours or the occasional highway patrol officer with a mysteriously-busted radar gun. The sky might be freedom, but the road was a challenge.

It wasn't really a disappointment when Bee finally slowed, took the exit for a sleepy little town Sam didn't actually know the name of, only that it was the furthest distance they could travel and still get home from before curfew without Bee breaking his cover. They'd never actually made it into the town any of the times they'd come out this way, always turning off onto the back roads where the asphalt gave way to gravel and dirt. Next time they'd have to bring Mikaela along--and it was the third time he'd thought that, and if there was ever a girl who could appreciate Bee's driving, it was her, only somehow taking on the interstate (and winning) was still just...a Sam-and-Bee thing. He hoped that didn't make him a bad boyfriend. Then he found himself wondering why Bee hadn't offered to swing by her place and pick her up.

And _then_ he decided Miles was never riding anywhere with him again, because if Bee had taken "bros before ho's" as some kind of _cultural directive,_ it wasn't like pop media was going to set him straight.

Right. And now he had a headache.

Shaking off his own confusion as a familiar turn appeared on his right, Sam sat up a bit and said, "Oh, hey. That way's the creek, right?"

"Would you like to stop?" Bee asked, gravel crunching under his wheels as he slowed.

"Yeah, if that's okay. Figured I'd show you the new plates," he added, trying not to break into a grin as he pictured Bee's reaction.

The dirt road that led down to the creek was deeply-rutted, the turnoff at the end wide enough that even a truck the size of Optimus Prime could have made a full circle easily. They'd seen a battered old pickup there once, a cooler and a bait bucket but no sign of the fisherman, which suited Sam just fine. Usually the place was empty, and between the unpaved road and the summer-dry brush all around, the likelihood of being crept up on unawares was just about nil.

Grabbing the mailer with the plates as Bee's engine went silent, Sam climbed out and stepped away, giving Bee room to transform. No matter how many times he saw that, he always had to bite his tongue to keep from asking Bee to do it again, slower, so that maybe _this_ time his brain could make sense of it if his eyes could just keep up. There was always too much to look at, his mind groping after understanding and settling for snatched impressions: a lattice of metal origami that looked more like modern sculpture than his friend, his helpful brain seeing the mid-change bend into car or arch into Bee as the steel-coiled crouch of a wolf. It was amazing, and he completely forgot everything but the awe of watching Bee reform until the Autobot took a knee, his eager, _"So, what's in the bag?"_ coming out distinctly 50s-movie flavored.

Grinning now despite himself, Sam peeled up the flap of the mailer, saying, "Okay, well...you can tell me if you don't like 'em--and be honest, okay--but...what do you think?"

Pulling out the plates, he held them up framed between his hands for Bumblebee's perusal, expecting a laugh, _hoping_ it'd be a delighted one, and wondering a few weeks too late if this wasn't the equivalent of having your mother write your name on the tags of all your clothing like you were still three years old. And maybe he should have asked one of the others, because all the whisper-quiet sounds he associated with Bee in robot form had gone absolutely still, like Bee was having the sort of shocked reaction that would have stolen the breath of a human. Bee definitely wasn't laughing, delightedly or otherwise, and now a whole _minute_ had ticked by in eerie, motionless silence, and...yeah. Awkward.

Which didn't make a whole lot of sense, because Bee had _known_ they'd been going to pick up new license plates, and did it really make that much difference if the ones Sam came back with happened to say 'BMBLB33?'

"Uh...Bee?"

Bumblebee's optics dimmed and brightened again, and though it looked like a blink to someone used to human body language, Sam happened to know that it was more like a side-effect of a warm boot of some pretty critical systems. Not exactly a good sign.

"Sam. Those...don't appear to be standard-issue plates," Bee said in his own voice, little pops of dead air crackling through the posh accent like his vocals were about to short out again.

"No, uh...they're vanity plates. Which totally refers to car _owners,_ okay, not you, because you're not vain at all. Honest. Anyway, uh...I guess I should have asked first, but I kind of wanted to surprise you, and I'm sorry if it's weird or tacky or--"

"No," Bee said slowly, the word cracking in the middle with a weird pneumatic hum that just couldn't be good. "And you...want me to wear these?"

"Only if you want to," Sam was quick to reply. "Just say the word and I'll send them back. It's just...you know. I guess I wanted to let people know who the car really belonged to," he got out despite his embarrassment, feeling totally lame and like he deserved a soap opera of his very own. But he still meant it, and he hadn't even been tempted to see if his own last name was available when he'd ordered these plates; he wanted people to see the awesome yellow Camaro and think _Bumblebee,_ not _Witwicky._ Or even _RoboStud._

Of course, considering that he only had seven characters to work with, that last one probably wouldn't have gone over very well.

He wasn't expecting Bee to transform without another word, which made him slow to react when a mysterious screwdriver went rolling down Bee's hood toward him. Habit made him lunge for it with a yelp, even knowing that Bee's paint wasn't likely to scratch under anything less than a Decepticon attack. That left him holding the unexpectedly significant plates in one hand and a screwdriver that felt way too light to be ordinary steel and plastic in the other, and it was pretty blatantly obvious how he was meant to interpret that.

"You want me to put these on you?" he asked anyway, because it just didn't feel right to assume. Bee's current form had to have included plates in the original specs; Bee could have mimicked the new ones himself.

The _Yes_ he got was mostly engine noise as vocal processors died for good, but it came straight from Bee, not a borrowed voice, and that was good enough for Sam.

And if the thought of Bee actually wearing his stupid little gift lit something warm behind his ribs, he didn't have to admit that to anyone.

***

The feel of inert aluminum against his armored frame was...distracting, to say the least. Hyperaware of their presence, he couldn't shake the knowledge of how comparatively fragile they were, how they'd crumple almost instantly on impacts that would barely faze Bee at all, and wondered if that wasn't part of the--

No. Sam didn't mean it as a challenge, he was sure of it, because Sam couldn't have the first clue what he'd _done._

He'd run a search string the instant Sam named the plates for what they were, and while on the surface it seemed their cultures meshed in this as well, he had to remind himself that humans had a million ways of marking their territory, and few of them meant the same thing. Dog tags were fundamentally different from a wedding ring, which was equally unlike the friendship bracelet Sam probably thought his plates equated to.

On Cybertron, Bee would have been wearing the equivalent of his master's collar for all to see, made from aluminum because Sam had no metal himself to spare, but there was no reason for Sam to know that.

Really. No reason at all. And he had approximately half a breem to stop panicking over this fact and convince Ratchet to play along before Sam realized something was up.

Long-range scans said the medic was waiting for them as they rolled up to the overlook--on Sam's orders, because it was Sam who'd made the call to Ratchet, when Bee would have been just as happy to _not_ be able to open his big mouth, figuratively speaking, and insert his metaphorical foot just then, and having his voice offline happened to be rather convenient. Sam had been insistent, though, and having caved to the necessity of a visit from Ratchet, he'd immediately tried to convince Sam to let him go alone.

He might have known that humans considered even a trip to the doctor to be a social occasion, that a part of 'friend duty' was providing moral support in the face of repairs. And to think he'd assumed the reports that their females were unable to visit the waste facilities solo had been an exaggeration.

As they crested the last hill, Sam groaned aloud, and if Bee could have, he would have done the same. Maybe it was just something about medics, but no matter the world or the alt form, they tended to stand out. That was good on the battlefield--at least you always knew in which direction to stagger--but there was a reason why very few medics went in for Special Ops.

An oversized rescue Hummer in an eye-catching chartreuse that rivaled Bee's own cheerful yellow was a shining example of why not. Really, a human coming across Ratchet parked in the middle of nowhere wouldn't have been curious at _all._

The medic was transforming before they even coasted to a stop, but Ratchet answered Bee's urgent ping aloud, either out of politeness for their human audience or to solicit reinforcements for his scolding; with Ratchet, anything was possible. "I did warn you," Ratchet announced as he took aim with his laser scanner, "about overusing your vocal processors before the repairs...had...set. Oh, my."

It was too late to transform, and a hologram wouldn't have fooled Ratchet anyway. It was just a little embarrassing to have Ratchet _staring at his plates,_ blatantly, in a way that made Bumblebee want to fold himself up into negative space out of sheer mortification.

 _Uh, Ratchet,_ he sent over private comm, so distracted that Sam had to palm the door shut himself after climbing out of Bee. _It's not what it--_

Cutting off the connection abruptly, Ratchet turned sharply to Sam, narrowing his optics. "Sam. I was under the impression that you were still a _minor_ of your species."

Oh, _Primus._

"Um," said Sam, clearly taken aback. "Yeah? I guess. I mean...wait, what do _you_ mean?" Sam shot right back, spine stiffening in offended pride. "I know you're older than my entire planet--"

"Not the _entire_ planet," Ratchet muttered huffily.

"--but I can pretty much guarantee I'm not breaking any laws here, so what gives? You weren't treating me like a kid before."

Bee would have applauded if he hadn't been so busy praying that Starscream would come roaring out of the stratosphere and put him out of his misery. He hadn't seen Ratchet so flustered in vorns.

"Er...my apologies...maybe it's different with humans, but--you...'drive?'"

Sam, bless his little spark, actually relaxed. "Oh, yeah, that's totally different--I've been legal since I turned sixteen. There's kind of like...stages, I guess," he added earnestly, not seeming to notice the way Ratchet stilled briefly in shock, the brightening blue glow as the medic's optics irised wide. "Like, I can join the army and buy cigarettes at eighteen, but I can't buy alcohol until I'm twenty-one. So I guess it's kind of arbitrary," he admitted with a shrug, "but that's how humans do it. Anyway, I thought you already knew."

Bee had never wanted so badly to laugh or been so grateful that he was physically unable to. What could Ratchet even say to that? If he rightly admitted that he hadn't had a clue, he could reasonably expect Sam to take it as an insult to his...masterfulness, or whatever the equivalent was in humans. On the other hand, if he lied through his grille to smooth things over, he'd be condoning interspecies relations between an immature human and a mech who apparently liked to be 'driven' in more ways than Ratchet had ever imagined.

He was so, so lucky that Cybertronian didn't translate well into English and that Sam communicated more through instinct than by observation. While his spark was unquestionably in the right place, sometimes nuance seemed to escape him, for which Bee thanked Primus most devoutly.

"Ah," Ratchet said uncomfortably. "Well. Different cultures, I suppose."

And then he hit Bee right in the vocals with that Pit-spawned regenerative beam without a word of warning. Again.

Medics. At least you could usually see them coming.

***

It wasn't until he got the summons from Optimus Prime that Sam began to suspect there might be something fishy going on. Not that he didn't trust Bumblebee, because he did. Implicitly. It was just that when _Optimus Prime_ said he merely wanted to reassure himself regarding your welfare, you couldn't help getting the feeling that he knew something you didn't.

The fact that Bumblebee had tried everything short of dropping his own transmission to get out of taking Sam to his leader was clue number two.

"So, c'mon," he said as Bee pulled reluctantly off the main highway, taking a dusty dirt road into the badlands with less than his usual flair. "What's really going on here? I figured you'd be all over the chance to see your friends again...take a nice long drive, stretch your wheels a bit...."

 _"I don't stay out late, don't care to go,"_ Bee played for him, _"I'm home about eight, just me and my radio...."_

"Uh-huh. C'mon, Bee, this is _me._ And are you sure you don't know why Optimus suddenly wants to see me?"

 _"He moves in mysterious ways,"_ an authentically English voice offered, _"his wonders to perform."_

"You are so cut off from the BBC channel."

_"Stairway denied!"_

"Don't make me add YouTube to the list," Sam warned, though he cracked not a minute later and started laughing. Seriously... _Wayne's World?_ "You're going to rot your brain with that stuff, you know that, right?"

_"Getting to know you...getting to know all about you...."_

"Yeah, so you can torture me with it, I got that."

It wasn't music or sound bites Bee filtered through his speakers then, just a weird metallic hum that should have set his nerves on edge and just...didn't. It was warmer than the dead-air drone Bee's vocal processors had made going out, deep and resonant, like how he imagined an engine would sound if it really could purr. It made it hard to stick to his guns, but still. _Optimus Prime._ Playing concerned father-figure.

"Just...we're not in any trouble, are we?" Because he couldn't think of anything he'd done on his own that'd have Prime wanting to sit him down for a talk, which just left Bumblebee. So he figured if they were going out, they'd go out together--from sheer, squirming embarrassment and promising they'd never do it again, he had no doubt at all about that. Optimus just had this _effect._

"Don't worry," Bee said in his own voice, still a little fuzzy around the edges but oddly determined. "I'll protect you."

Yeah, and that was a KO in one punch--and Bee had to know it, too.

Whoever had picked the meeting place this time had to be a real practical joker, or else had a morbid sense of humor, because pulling off the highway and into a maze of crushed cars stacked up like rusty Legos wasn't exactly Sam's idea of an Autobot resort. Then again, what better place to hide a car than in the middle of a wrecking yard?

Not that Optimus Prime was hiding. Already transformed, he waited for them in a wide, cleared space in the midst of the debris, and though he stood as straight and regal as ever, there was a faintly worried cast to his features that made Sam's stomach immediately try to relocate somewhere south. Like Argentina. Even Bee sort of shuddered at the sight, and not from shared excitement this time; he didn't quite drag his wheels, but from the way he dithered about coasting to a stop, Sam got the feeling Bee wouldn't have minded rolling straight on past Prime and back out onto the highway again before picking up speed.

"Time to face the music," Sam muttered, gripping the steering wheel hard, but for once Bee didn't take the bait, his radio spitting an uncertain, wavering squeal that hissed and popped, wordless.

Bracing himself, Sam climbed out and refused to step away, even though it left Bee no room to transform unless he backed up first. Presenting a united front--that was always a good start, right? Only Optimus just looked at the two of them silently for a long moment before turning abruptly to Bee.

"Ironhide wanted a word," he rumbled, and though there was nothing even close to a threat in that deep, vibrant voice, the careful _lack_ of emotion was almost worse. And Sam would have argued, honest, but it sounded like it was Bumblebee that Prime wanted out of earshot, _Sam_ who'd done something stupid without even realizing it, and-- _I'll protect you,_ Bee had said.

Oh, _man._

"Sir--" Bee began in his still-healing voice, only to fall silent as Sam waved him off, stepping deliberately away with a nervous smile.

"It's okay, Bee," he said, refusing to look at his friend. At least with Bee still stuck in car mode, he wouldn't have to worry about meeting a second pair of worried eyes. "This won't take long." Wishful thinking, maybe, but hope springs eternal, right?

Stiffening his shoulders as Bee rolled reluctantly away at Prime's nod, Sam forced himself to look Optimus right in the optics, wondering what had happened to make the mech look so _old_ just then and whether he had any hope of fixing it. "Look. Optimus. Whatever I did, you gotta know I wouldn't offend you guys for the world. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. So if I messed up, just _tell_ me, and I--"

"Sam," Optimus interrupted, unexpectedly kind. "You've done nothing wrong. I only wanted to ask how you were settling in with Bumblebee as your guardian."

"Bee?" Sam echoed, thrown for a loop. "Bee's great. He's like...I mean, I know I haven't known him that long, but he's practically my best friend. Uh...don't tell Miles," he added, feeling obscurely guilty, which always made him babble, but... _giant alien robot._ Who _wanted_ to be his friend, not because they'd grown up in the same neighborhood or because losers like them had to travel in herds because God knew the jocks traveled in packs, but...because he'd seen something in Sam worth being friends with. He still woke up every day expecting to wake up for real, to find out he'd been dreaming all along, and not just when it came to Mikaela; it was Bee, too. Maybe Bee especially, because he'd been dreaming about Mikaela for years, but he hadn't even known to _wish_ for anything like Bumblebee.

"I see," Optimus murmured, looking oddly more troubled than before. Sam just waited, bewildered, as Prime lowered himself to one knee, recognizing that the mech was searching for words, even though he couldn't quite explain how he knew. Something in the face, though it wasn't nearly as mobile as a human's, or just something in the way the air around the giant mech hummed. Apparently all the time he'd been spending around Bumblebee was paying off. "Sam," Optimus said at last. "You are...very young, I understand...."

Something _almost_ clicked.

"Oh, man," he said, sagging a little in relief as one possible explanation occurred out of the blue. "Is this about the driving thing?" And okay, it was weird that Optimus actually flinched at that, but-- "Because I thought I'd explained all that to Ratchet. And I know you guys are totally safety first, but seriously, I know what I'm doing! I passed Driver's Ed with flying colors, too--I can bring you my report card, if you don't believe me."

"Driver's...Ed?" Optimus repeated, sounding just the tiniest bit disturbed.

"Yeah. There's a class at school," Sam offered with a shrug, frowning as Optimus did the blinking reboot thing. Twice. "Look, it's not like I don't trust Bee, because I totally do, and I'm not going to forget what he is and start treating him like some brainless machine. And anytime he wants to drive, I'm fine with that. But," he added over what sounded like a stifled gear-grind of deep discomfort, "I can take care of myself, honest. I mean...you do realize that if I couldn't drive, my dad wouldn't have been taking me to buy my first car, right?"

For one endless moment, Sam honestly thought he'd broken Optimus Prime's brain. The hell of it was, he had no clue how he'd done it.

"But," Prime said quickly, like he was trying to convince himself, "your cars aren't--"

And then Optimus stopped. Blinked again. And then dropped his face into his palm.

"Uh...you okay?" Sam asked, a little too stunned at having a giant robot facepalming in front of him to try to parse why the giant robot was facepalming in the first place. "Want me to call Ratchet?"

"I think Ratchet has helped enough already," Prime muttered, but the careful distance was gone from his voice at last. Sam could hear the laugh that wanted to escape crystal-clear.

"Uh...yeah. This is one of those cultural things, isn't it?" Sam hazarded a guess. "Like not shaking hands with your left hand in some country I forget unless you want a beating. Like that?"

"Something...somewhat...like that, yes," Optimus agreed with a genteel huff of exhaust that sounded a lot like a polite cough. "My apologies. At first glance, they seemed to have the same meaning as they would on Cybertron, and while I would certainly have wished the both of you well, I was merely...concerned," he said, face shifting in something like a wry smile. "Clearly I owe Bumblebee an apology as well," he added, shaking his head. "I'm sure he took them in the spirit they were given."

Sam was about to ask, he really was, because it kind of sounded like Optimus was talking about Bee's new plates. Only he was just a little distracted by the sudden, signature clatter of Bee's transformation from somewhere deeper in the wrecking yard, followed by Ironhide's yelp and a shuddering boom like one of those stacks of flattened cars had just gotten tipped over like the start of a truly epic domino chain.

He probably should have taken Optimus' patient sigh as a sign, but he just couldn't assume like that, not when it came to Bee.

He took off running instead.

***

Really. Bee was prepared to ignore the stares, the snide remarks, even the disapproval of his elders if they thought he'd influenced an impressionable human not even properly adult by the species' own standards. He was even prepared to endure Ironhide's particular brand of teasing once he made it perfectly clear that nothing was going on, that the bigger mech should check his database once again for the definition of 'vanity plate' and ask himself what it meant that they'd been made out in Bumblebee's name, not Sam's.

It was when Ironhide grinned at him _that_ way and asked, "So...does that mean you're keeping them in trust for him?" that Bumblebee found his patience did in fact have a limit.

Too bad the revelation occurred a nano-klik after he'd transformed, swept Ironhide's feet out from under him, and put his old friend down with an arm wrenched up behind him, one knee leaving dents in Ironhide's back plating.

"Right," Ironhide said into the dirt with a laugh, nothing grudging, "that's what I thought. Really, Bee...a human?"

"It's not--"

"Mm-hmm."

"And his being human doesn't--"

"'Course not."

"It's not even _like_ that!"

"I know," Ironhide said, unexpectedly sympathetic. "It's a good thing you're usually more patient than this."

Bumblebee's reply was a frustrated snarl of radio static, but before Ironhide could do more than laugh at him--again--the sound of human feet pelting over packed earth had him looking up, just in time to see Sam come skidding around a tower of cars. It was clear Sam was shocked by what he saw, but his sagging jaw snapped instantly closed, wide eyes going anxious and _canny_ as he struggled inwardly--and very, very visibly--for some way to keep Bee out of trouble for attacking another Autobot.

"Primus love 'im," Ironhide muttered with a snort of pure amusement, shrugging a little to remind Bee to let him up before he happened to recall his pride was at stake. "Now get him out of here before you two rot my teeth."

"You don't have teeth."

"And yet you're rotting them anyway. That's just how ridiculous you are."

When in doubt, fall back on orders.

Bee transformed, swung open a door, and took Sam home.

***

Mikaela had never much cared for English Lit. She liked hands-on problems, concrete equations with predictable answers. Give her math or science any day; at least you could relax knowing that you'd either get the answer right or wrong. You were never _half_ wrong, or not giving it a chance, or _dig just a little deeper, dear, I know you can do it._ She might be shallow about what she liked to look at, okay, but that didn't make her an _idiot._ Still, how should she know what the author had intended with the symbolism in chapter fifteen in the drawing room with the candlestick if it wasn't Professor Plum? If the author hadn't made their symbolism clear enough in the first place, then maybe they shouldn't be calling them 'classics.'

Or maybe she just hated the books that made it to the English Lit reading list. Pretty much every female character ever made her want to strangle them, and ninety-nine percent of the males could have been improved by a sharp blow with a shovel across the back of the head.

That said--or not _said,_ because she knew what happened when you went around actually speaking what was on your mind, present company excluded--she was actually enjoying doing her Lit homework for the first time in...well, ever. It probably didn't hurt that she was doing it on Sam's obscenely comfortable couch, with her book and her notebook propped up in her lap and her feet stretched out in Sam's. He didn't even seem to mind that she was only listening to him with half an ear, which wasn't because she wasn't interested in what he had to say, because she was. A lot more interested than she was in _The Idiot,_ which she'd stopped even pretending to read ten minutes ago.

It was just that Sam was _rubbing her feet,_ completely unasked, and she just didn't see how she could be expected to pay complete attention to anything when free foot rubs were on offer.

"But seriously," he was saying, staring blindly off into space as his fingers continued to work their magic, circling around the base of her heel and then pressing into the arch, working the tension out with long, soothing passes. "Everybody has been acting completely bizarre for the last week, and I swear it all started when we picked up Bee's new plates. I mean, you've seen them, right? Bee-em-bee-ell-bee-three-three. Bumblebee. It's not code or anything; it's just his name! How is that even weird?"

"Hn," she managed, wiggling her toes a little, and God, yes, Sam could take a hint.

"Only Bee was like...I don't know. He got kind of quiet when I showed them to him, and then he actually had me put them on him. Government-issue plates, on an _Autobot._ It's like drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa! And then we ran into Ratchet, and Ratchet was all, 'hey, are you legal to handle this much horsepower?' Which...uh, sounds kind of...bad," Sam said with a thoughtful frown, kneading now at the ball of her foot, eyes still fixed on the middle distance. "And Optimus, man...I swear at one point I thought he was going to pull out a Voltron doll and ask me to show him where the bad robot...made...me...oh my _God."_

"Is Bumblebee wearing your name on his dog collar?" she asked, just to be clear.

"Uh...yeah...yeah, I think he is. I mean, it's _his_ name, but...um."

She wondered for a moment whether she ought to be jealous. But this was Bumblebee, and Sam's hands had started moving again, and as freaked out as he looked, he looked twice as worried, and this was _Bumblebee._ And it was also Sam, who was sometimes just like every boy she'd ever met--awkward and uncertain and trying way too hard to impress her--and who in the next breath would do something like...like hand out foot rubs that stayed totally below the ankle, just because the opportunity was there and he was _genuinely that nice_ when he forgot he had anything to prove. Or who'd surprise a friend with vanity plates with the Autobot's own designation, not to mark him but to name him for everyone to see.

That it still surprised him when others went out of their way to make _him_ happy for a change was only part of the reason she was maybe just a little in love with him already. Maybe. Just a little.

Like how his flashy alien car was maybe just a little bit protective.

And okay, the alien thing woke her up for a moment, but...damn it, she and Bumblebee? They had a _bond._ They'd fought together. They'd taken down a _Decepticon tank_ together. You couldn't get that kind of trust just anywhere.

"I just...I don't get why he'd let me do that," Sam said abruptly, nervous and defensive and...not getting it. Of course. He didn't even get _her_ \--how was he supposed to get Bumblebee?

"Maybe you should ask him. Just...go easy on him, okay? We're probably the closest thing to family he's got."

She meant the other Autobots too with that 'we'--how could she not? and yes, their bond _was_ just that awesome--but Sam looked like he was having a slightly different epiphany, one he...probably wasn't all that wrong about. Not that watching a boy blush from hairline to collar was in any way a novel experience.

"Have you ever detailed a car?" she asked with as innocent a smile as she could manage while trailing her bare toes up his wrist until he swallowed. "Because I could teach you."

"Uh," he said and cleared his throat. "Let me get back to you on that...?"

"I'll hold you to it," she promised, her smile stretching wide as she dropped her homework casually to the floor.

***

Most of the time, finding a pair of alien eyes glowing at you out of the gloom of your darkened garage would be bad news, but when they came in Autobot blue, that was all Sam needed to feel okay about slipping inside and shutting the door without turning the light on first. He almost expected Bee to squint away from the glare when he did flip the switch on, but that was stupid; Bee's optics were far superior to anything organic, after all. He just wished he knew himself whether he was holding on to those expectations because of stubborn human bias or because it was just too easy to forget that he and Bee were _different._

It was a little easier to remember when he was looking at the mech instead of the car. Though Bee wasn't the largest of the Autobots by any means, he looked like a giant curled up in the garage like that, limbs pulled carefully in to keep from knocking things over, _broad_ in ways Sam always forgot until they were face to face again. In Sam's head, Bee was sleek, streamlined, and he still was, just...big. Very, very big. Which made it sort of ridiculous that it was Bee who couldn't meet his eyes, who seemed to be trying to make himself small to avoid the conversation they both knew was coming.

"So," Sam said, a faint smile growing steadily as he was just... _blindsided_ by the ridiculousness of the week he'd just had, and all those mistaken assumptions, and with _sheer, idiot fondness_ for the alien in his garage. "I guess I kind of embarrassed you royally these last few days, huh?"

Blue optics swiveled towards him even before Bee's head turned slowly in his direction, but whatever Bee saw, it was enough to make the bulky shoulders sag with relief.

"It was worth it."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, grinning openly now. "Which part? The part where I _broke Optimus Prime's brain,_ or where you took Ironhide down like some kind of ninja?"

"He wasn't expecting it," Bee said modestly, ducking his head like...like he had no idea how good shy looked on him, and why hadn't Sam noticed this before?

He'd ask why he was noticing it _now,_ but he already had a prioritized list of stupid questions, and he planned to stick to it.

"No way," he laughed to cover his own flustered hesitation. "That guy's your _weapons specialist._ That was _awesome."_

"Well...maybe a little," Bee admitted, his eyes smiling for him since his mouth wasn't really built for it. It almost made Sam think they'd get through this without the embarrassing discussion after all, at least until Bee's eyes went solemn. "Sam. I must apologize. I realized almost immediately the intent behind your gift, but I also knew how the others would take it. It was never my intention to embarrass you, or subject you to the others' disapproval--"

"Hey, whoa, slow down!" Sam protested, holding up both hands when it looked like Bee might just be on the verge of a full-blown guilt trip. "I mean, for two whole minutes I had Optimus thinking we taught BDSM as an elective and that my dad had helped me buy my first _pleasure bot,_ but I'm pretty sure he never actually _disapproved._ Thought I was too young to be rocking my _guardian,_ sure...."

The noise that escaped Bee at that was half static and half grind, which Sam took as a cross between a sputtered laugh and a mortified groan. Something made him step closer, heartened when Bee didn't shift away, even when he reached out to take Bee by the shoulder.

"C'mon, big guy. Give me the whole story here. Why go along in the first place? What am I missing?"

Bee was silent for a long moment, but eventually he found his voice. "I arrived on Earth four of your years ago. Alone. It's not unusual--I'm a scout; I'm often alone. I just...missed it. Belonging," he explained hesitantly.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, lifting his free hand to rest on Bumblebee's bowed head. "I get you."

He did, too, considering that he'd missed it his entire life, and the closest he'd ever gotten to knowing what it felt like was Miles, now Mikaela, and Bumblebee. And it should not be this _easy_ to shift sixteen feet of bulletproof mech, but Bee gave to the tiniest hint of pressure as Sam pulled his head down closer, leaning his brow against Bee's for a long moment, eyes closed, just breathing. Yeah, he got wanting to be wanted, wanting tangible proof that someone saw something _worth_ wanting in you. He got that clear as day.

"So," he said eventually with a self-conscious laugh, realizing only when he tried to straighten that a big metal hand had curved to rest at his back, quickly removed but setting off not one single alarm in the process. "Anyway, if you want to do your transforming thing with the plates, that's cool. Or even if you don't."

"You...don't mind if I wear them?" Bee hazarded, clearly surprised.

"Bee. At the risk of sounding like a whole wall of Hallmark cards, it doesn't matter if you wear them or not. You're still our Bee either way."

"'Our?'" Bee echoed, optics irising wide.

"Yeah, uh...apparently they bond through mayhem and property damage on Mikaela's planet," Sam explained ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck with a grin. "And letting her drive once the shooting started? That was pretty much like skywriting 'will you marry me?' in zillion-foot high letters over the city. Just so you know."

The first two notes of Bee's car alarm chirped loudly into the silence--the equivalent of a startled squeak, Sam would bet, though without any particular horror--and that had him laughing again.

"Don't I know it," he agreed, patting Bee's shoulder again before stepping away. Cocking his head thoughtfully, he tried for a moment to see the robot there, the alien, unknowable machine, but it was just...Bee, patient and relaxed now that Sam wasn't kicking him out of the garage or his life. And Sam wasn't going to lie--in the instant when he'd realized exactly what the other Autobots thought was going on, he'd been about two seconds from running screaming, possibly all the way to the Arctic Circle, because...well, he was a _guy._ An ordinary, normal guy, who liked girls, and humans, and human girls in particular.

And then Mikaela had started talking about _family,_ and he could just...see it, like it was so obvious it'd been invisible before. He'd been trying not to get his hopes up, not to think too far ahead, because a girl like Mikaela didn't just...settle. It just didn't _happen,_ not when she could have so much better for the asking. So he'd been trying not to think about things like five years down the road, and what kind of place they could get on their salaries, because apartment garages were universally crap, and Bee...deserved better.

It was when he found himself thinking that Mikaela probably wouldn't want to make out in a crap garage either that he realized that at some point he'd started thinking of Bee as a _part_ of things, and that there was a word for that, and a completely different word when one of the three was _wearing your collar,_ and that was when he'd started blushing. And couldn't stop.

He still didn't know what to do with all that, but he was pretty sure he had time to work it out. What he did know how to handle was this: the two of them, comfortably awkward in the wake of one of the most bizarre conversations he'd had all week, and that was saying something.

"So," he said with studied casualness, picking up the bottle of leather conditioner he'd bought in the grips of a bonding moment with his mom. "How do you feel about the oiled pleasure slave look? Because you know, I think you could really work it."

He didn't know why he kept forgetting how fast Bee was. The first few devastatingly-precise noogies should have convinced him that big didn't have to mean clumsy.

***

Putting the last of the dishes away, Judy reached for a hand towel and frowned. "Ron?" she called without stepping away from the sink. "Did you hear Sam come in yet?"

"I think he's still out in the garage," Ron yelled over the news from the next room, the television snapping off moments later. "Again. The neighbors are going to think he's afraid to come home."

"The neighbors are going to think his first car is a Camaro," Judy shot back as she peered through the kitchen window. It looked like the lights were still on in the garage, but that didn't always mean what it should. Not that she doubted for one moment that Sam was in there. "I'll go see if he's ready to come in," she decided. "Have you checked the locks?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't know why I bother," Ron muttered, the couch springs shifting as he heaved himself to his feet and made his way down the hall. "That car of his is better than a burglar alarm."

Judy shook her head. Always a grumbler, that was her Ron.

Smiling faintly, she stepped out into the cool night air, taking care to shut the screen door quietly behind her.

Tapping softly on the garage door before easing it open a crack, she slipped inside when she didn't hear a warn-off, unsurprised at finding very nearly the exact scene she'd expected to see.

Well. Very nearly.

The big yellow Camaro looked perfectly innocent in the brightly-lit garage, though if Judy hadn't known better, she'd have said an entire kindergarten had pitched in to "help" wax the poor thing. There were streaks on his hood, an entire handprint smeared on his windshield, and half a sponge was still sticking out where he'd snapped his hood shut on it like a dog with a stick. The driver's side door was still propped open, the dome light cheerfully illuminating the figure slumped behind the wheel, one foot still on the garage floor like Sam had only meant to sit down for a few minutes to rest his eyes.

If Bumblebee was rumpled, Sam was a wreck. Hair electric, he had smudges of leather oil and engine grease on his face, and it was a good thing he'd been wearing his grubby clothes, because that shirt was a loss. Despite all that, and the awkward angle at which his head had fallen against his shoulder, he looked more peaceful than she could remember seeing him in weeks, maybe months, and she just didn't have the heart to wake him. Not when he was finally sleeping, nightmare-free. A cricked neck in the morning was a small price to pay, and she was reluctantly willing to admit that he was probably in safe hands. Even if no hands were actually apparent at the moment.

It was idle curiosity about those missing parts that led her eyes away from her sleeping son, and that led to her first good look at the Autobot's new plates since Sam had brought them home.

Which immediately led to her clapping a hand over her mouth to keep from waking him up with a shameless hoot of laughter. Oh, Lord, that _was_ her boy--hopeless at shopping, it had to be said, but at least his instincts were good.

"Nice bling," she whispered with a grin, trusting that the car was still awake. Which was an odd thought to have--both the awake part and the trust--but if it kept her son in one piece, she could learn to deal with stranger.

Flashing his lights--as good as a wink--the car managed to look both smug and proud, like Mojo with a new collar or Sam with Mikaela on his arm.

Judy shook her head. _Boys._

Not that either of them were going to live to be men if Sam's father found the garage in this state, but that was a problem for the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe the insane research I ended up doing for this simple piece of crack. Everything from the size of a genuine superstore to car wax brands to how many characters are allowed on Nevada vanity plates. WHAT. I DON'T EVEN. (Also, you have no idea how close this thing came to being named "Amour Plated." _I'm just saying_.)
> 
>  **Songs Used:**  
>  Meatloaf - "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad"  
> Lamb - "All In Your Hands"  
> The Beatles - "A Little Help From My Friends"  
> Broadway Musical _Annie_ \- "Tomorrow" (near miss)  
>  The Beatles - "I'm Looking Through You"  
> Ella Fitzgerald - "Ain't Misbehavin'"  
> Bing Crosby - "Getting To Know You"


End file.
